The Train Demon

Chapter 1 (1998)

“Damn,” said the man in disbelief. “What sort of train company is this, where the toilets are locked after three hours on a train without them!” The man looked around. Just two other passengers had got off. The only taxi, with them inside, was heading down the road, brake lights flashing as the driver navigated the bends.

The man wandered out around the back of the station. It was dark, deserted and perfect for his desperate need to urinate. All was well until he stumbled over the body of a teenage boy, face down on the gravel. The 27th of March 1998 would change many lives.

Chapter 2 (2019)

DJ looked around his office. A clear-out, probably. A clean-up, most certainly. Rearranging and redecorating, a good possibility. Moving out to new premises, absolutely not.

That had been the conclusion after considerable soul-searching. Moving to a shiny, well-equipped office had its merits but he simply didn’t want to. This rundown office in a decrepit block was his spiritual and physical home ever since he had set up as a private investigator. He had probably spent more time in here than in his old, now vacant flat in a grubby apartment block. This office wasn’t just around him; it was an extension of him, welded together like the crust and filling of a pie. It wasn’t only memories. There were physical reminders, heaped on each other; cases he had taken on and mostly solved. Even the front door had never been repainted. It still bore the boot marks and bullet splinters like a badge of honour that the good guy had survived and the bad ones had not.

His thoughts were disturbed by a loud, familiar, knock on the door.

It was Ben Willows, a long-time friend and DJ’s boss when they had been in the police force together. Now, Ben was the city’s recently appointed Chief of Police.

“No new car to go with your change in lifestyle,” he quipped, “same, I guess, as no new office either.”

“Hubcaps would last ten minutes on a new car in this neighbourhood,” DJ replied. “The rest would be stolen, scratched or torched within twenty. Let’s just say my car is now officially roadworthy and reliable.”

“Hurrah. I always did admire your sense of optimism DJ,” Ben continued sarcastically. “Still, a roadworthy car could prove very helpful.”

DJ raised a quizzical eyebrow.

“It happened in the early hours of this morning, or late last night. The authorities are trying to keep the press and TV out of it but that won’t last more than a day. It was thirty miles out of the city. I have convinced the higher ups that it should be under our jurisdiction.”

“What’s the hidden punchline you’re not telling me?” DJ asked.

“I’ve whetted your curiosity though. It’s the M.O. Let’s just say there is enough similarity with the Train Demon to make it disturbing.”

“After all these years?” DJ suddenly stopped. “Woah, there’s no way that I’m re-joining the police force, even if it’s you now in charge.”

Ben laughed. “In the nicest possible way, I wouldn’t want you to. Let’s call it a consultancy shall we? Better rates of pay, and I’ll tempt you with a nice shiny hire car.”

“Why?”

“Because you will probably have to travel. Ooh, nearly got you with that one didn’t I,” Ben chuckled. “Why is because we worked on the original case and it was never solved. That still grips me and I’m sure as hell it does you too. We got so close with the team we had. Maybe we can put some old ghosts to rest. Listen DJ, I know your circumstances have changed and you have more than just you in your life these days. Talk it over with them but let me know by no later than ten o’clock tonight.”

DJ looked at the calendar on his wall, which was definitely not politically correct, and then at his diary. To be honest, it wasn’t that full. He slammed it shut and looked up ashen-faced. “The date,” he said quietly. “It’s exactly twenty one years since the first murder.”

“And, pretty much at the same time,” Ben added. “Coincidence theory or not, it’s got me interested.”

DJ chatted it through with his wife Catherine and his two daughters, Halona and Chloe. Was it dangerous? Would he be away much? Was it what he really wanted to do? The questions kept flying faster than bees out of a hive, but the answer to the last one was clear. Ben was right. Cops and private investigators alike hate cases that they can’t solve. A killer was still out there, living free and the awful thought that any day, month or year they might strike again with another victim added to their cruel list.

Three minutes to ten that evening, Ben got the phone call he wanted. DJ was back in the case. An hour later, DJ was ready for bed, in a reflective mood, sipping the last drops of whisky out of his glass. The Train Demon still haunted him so many years later. It was the case that had helped him decide that another serial killer, Marlon Ruffet, would not escape justice. Ruffet was the reason DJ had been forced out of the police. It seemed fitting that the wheel was, somehow, turning full circle.

Chapter 3 (1998)

The stationmaster was whistling. Spring weather was threatening to break out according to the forecast, the first sign that winter was on the way out. That could only be good. The stationmaster had traipsed the same route for fifty years since he had started work at fourteen. One mile there and one mile back to the small, but prim, house that had always been home.

‘The job picks the man and then the man sticks with the job in these parts’, his father had often told him when he had been growing up. That had certainly been true. Still, only a week to go and then he would be hanging up his lantern, whistle and boots.

The whistling stopped…as the stationmaster found the body.

The local police acted fast. This was a small town. News, rumours and gossip spread fast. In some ways it was already too late. The commuters who normally took the first train were finding that, today, they could not. The station was closed. Anger and fear were mounting. There were only three buses a day. The public phone boxes had growing queues as workers tried to contact their bosses.

Two police cars were racing down a road on the edge of town. At a junction, one carried on, whilst the other turned onto a narrower lane. The houses here were ramshackle. Suspicious eyes watched with trepidation, supplanted by relief as the owners realised the cars weren’t for them. This wasn’t a petty crime, it was murder. The cold-hearted criminal must not get away.

The scuffle was short. The man was protesting, his startled wife screaming and the terrified children, about to go to school, were crying. The suspect was bundled into the backseat, a blanket was thrown over him. Several blows to the head with a pistol butt shut him up. The cars raced away, lights and sirens full on. The police had their man.

Six hours later, the interrogating detective was getting exasperated.

“Dammit,” he was yelling. “You say it ‘wasn’t me’ one more time and I’ll add wasting police time to the list of charges. Start talking, because if you don’t, the next time you want a glass of water, I’ll give you the glass to chew. Which bit don’t you get, Niall Quinley? We only need the confession and motive. Let’s make it neat and tidy. You were there. It was your stop. The boots you were wearing match the prints on the strip of soil where the gravel ended. You peed right next to the boy’s body. Parts of his clothes were still damp and there was a puddle at his side. Your business card was virtually underneath the victim’s body. You didn’t raise the alarm or call the emergency services. You knew he was already dead though, didn’t you, because you strangled him. Maybe you didn’t want your past digging up Niall, was that it? You’ve done time for theft, grievous bodily harm and the fire at the shop. That was never pinned on you, though we all know it was arson and started by you.”

“I’m an honest salesman now,” Niall whimpered. “That was ages ago.”

The policeman leading the interrogation guffawed. “Salesman and honest in the same sentence! Rattlesnakes never lose their rattle Niall. Do you hear what I’m saying?”

“How about I tell you what happened. Something went wrong at the rendezvous. A fifty year old, balding, life going nowhere man needing some excitement. Enjoy the thought of a good looking boy, did you Niall? Did you plan to kill him, or did you change your mind?”

Niall’s mouth twitched. He screamed and lunged at the detective. Niall was thrown forcibly into his chair accompanied by a flurry of punches.

“Ah,” the detective remarked, his tone brightening. “Getting close now, are we?”

“I didn’t do it, any of it,” Niall sobbed.

“Take him back to the cell,” the detective ordered. “Give him some reminders about what he’s meant to say. Make sure he can still write to sign the confession.”

Later, the detective stood before his boss in the Westmaston Grange police station, giving all the details.

The boss was blunt. “This has to be cleared up quickly, or it will be all over us like a rash we can’t get rid of. You’ve given this character long enough. You know what to do. If you can’t make the crime match the suspect, fit up the suspect to match the crime.”

Chapter 4 (2019)

“This is your office DJ,” Ben said as they walked through the door. DJ looked around in surprise.

“My office? This is Tony Oddington’s old office!”

“Tell me, DJ. Can you still smell Oddington? We literally scrubbed and bleached this room before redecorating it. I also made sure I got rid of all his old cronies. It wasn’t hard after the fallout from the collapse of the PPC, the Pain for Pleasure Club. They disassociated faster than a bullet from a gun. Couldn’t save them though. Three are awaiting trial, or already in prison. The rest I managed to get out of this city, if not the police. This Chief of Police is happy with something much less grand. I’ll be sitting over there when I’m on this case. Vested interests and all that. I’m taking personal charge. This desk is for a very seasoned detective from my old station. Every team needs one.”

“Does he have a name?”

“Cougar. It was an undercover codename but it became the only one he would use. Just be prepared for something a little…unusual.”

“Great. That still leaves a desk,” DJ observed.

“Well spotted,” Ben laughed. “There’s a detective in you somewhere. Who else would you expect on a case like this?”

“Not a profiler?” DJ groaned.

“That’s part of the job, but also an archivist. How about a new recruit?”

“A new recruit straight into a murder case that could be linked to one of the most notorious serial killers from the past this state ever witnessed. Are you kidding me!”

“Don’t look at me like that DJ. Somethings never change. Orders can come down from on high that even the Chief of Police can’t disobey.”

“So,” DJ sighed, “there’s you, me, a weirdo cop and a, no doubt, rookie, fuddy-duddy, no sense of humour profiler and archivist.”

“Then, I hope to disappoint on all counts.”

“Marjory!” DJ said, nearly tumbling off his chair as he whirled around.

“You remembered my name! I think you might go far if you choose an investigative career.” The head of the City Museum archives was smiling at him with twinkling eyes. “And, you know that I make good coffee.”

“Just what…”

“…Am I doing here? Well, the City Museum is home to all the archives. It’s being restructured. Terence Downes’ money is no longer funding it. Besides, the archive department is in good hands. Ben’s right,” Marjory added. “I’ve done several cold case archive researches. To be quite candid, it’s my secret, dark side thrill. Despite my outward appearance and pretty dresses, there’s very little that upsets me.”

“Sounds like you’ll be a great match for Mr. Zany.”

“Who?” Marjory asked?

“His name is Cougar,” Ben insisted.

“Is he married?” Marjory suddenly sounded interested.

“Time to go!” Ben replied hurriedly. “I know I said I’m personally taking charge but what they forget to add to the Chief of Police’s title is administration. There’s more paperwork than there is toilet paper in the municipal WCs.”

“Not much then,” DJ shouted after him.

“Charming,” Marjory added. “Now, is it the old or the new first?”

DJ knew exactly what she meant.

“We only have a brief report from the newest murder. Ben’s still securing the handover before we can visit.”

“You can visit,” Marjory corrected him. “I’m strictly an office girl. Take me through what you know and then we’ll revisit the old case.”

It took two coffees and the same in hours before DJ was finished. “Any observations,” he asked hopefully.

“It will take me a day or two to sort everything out into meaningful piles. You say that this all started in 1998?”

“Yes.”

“Well, we have the trigger year,” Marjory noted, “but we need more from before. The youngest killer I’ve come across was seven years old and it was deliberate. That means there was the previous six years of shaping that child, even if the act seemed out of character and not pre-meditated. Whatever started the Train Demon to begin killing in 1998 was growing like poison long before, probably right back to his childhood. Anyway, time for you to get back to your lovely wife and beautiful daughters. It’s important that you don’t lose sight of them as we become embroiled.”

Chapter 5 (1968)

“Nigel, don’t press your lips to the window! It’s dirty. I won’t tell you again.”

The woman’s voice was sharp and carried the threat of punishment if another misdemeanour occurred.

“Leave him alone Joan. He’s enjoying himself and it’s in his blood. He’s a Barron after all.”

Nigel, aged six, pulled his mouth away, stared at his mother and smiled at his father, who was watching the daughters of his advertising manager playing cat’s cradle with a ball of wool. It was 1942. The rest of the train was full of excited, if nervous, servicemen but not in this carriage. This one was private. This was Nigel’s father’s train and part of his rail empire.

Nigel, now thirty-two, carried on looking at the book, specially arranged to be published on his birthday. ‘One Hundred Years of the GER, The Grand Eastern Railroad 1868 – 1968.’ What a century it had been, littered with the good and the bad, growth and decline, punctuated by rafts of legislation and world-changing events. Incessantly greedy acquisitions, partially harnessed by the Interstate Commerce Act of 1887. Unlike many, this railroad had weathered the ‘Panic of 1893.’ It had survived the Great Railroad Strike of 1922 and the depression that had followed later. The Ripley Plan of 1929 would have been good for his father’s empire but it had never been actioned. When Nigel had been on that train as a six year old, times had been good. The war had seen an increase in freight and passengers. By contrast, the 1950s and 60s, thus far, had been dire. Competition for airports and highways were killing the railway. The Federal Railroad Administration initiative two years ago was promising reform but at the cost of individual ownership and identity. That’s why a senior executive Nigel trusted had suggested the book.

“Get it out while you can,” he had said. “I’ll make sure that we are steered into a position of influence, but it will come at a cost. We’ll be hard pushed to even retain the name Grand Eastern Railroad.”

Nigel sighed and looked at the photograph again. It was not of him but of his all-time favourite train, the Sea Fret. It was part of the network which connected the Dennisey City hordes to the promise of a welcome vacation by the sea. It was a beautiful train in blue-and-white, with stylised waves painted down the sides. That day in 1942 had been its last ever journey.

His father’s death had been unexpected and suddenly young in 1952. At age just sixteen Nigel had been appointed head of the board with the senior executive to monitor him. The fact that it had happened one week before the launch of the new Sea Fret II made it even more poignant.

“This is my train now,” Nigel had announced on board its maiden journey. He had already sensed that his father’s love for the Grand Eastern Railroad had been waning. Not so for him. Nigel was an evangelist of the rail system with fire in his eyes. He was determined to not only hold on to his inherited empire, by fair means or foul, but increase it. He was so zealous that he had been overheard saying that he was prepared to kill if he had to.